


Christmas-time Tales

by granite



Series: Home Life [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Enjolras, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Old Married Couple, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:44:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granite/pseuds/granite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras goes a little overboard on the alcohol and Olivie just can't help herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas-time Tales

Olivie lays on the couch, burrowed into the cushions with every blanket she could find. The heater hums somewhere above her, a consistent strain of the old machinery. She let the rumbling lull her into a trance, the book transferring her into another world. With the night to herself, she took advantage of the quiet to catch up on reading. Her parents were never necessarily loud or disturbing, but sometimes the complete stillness of the house felt meditative. She twisted her body around, dislocating the pillows and blankets, leaving her in a loose burrito to look at the large clock plastered on the wall. Four hours ago, the little hand hugged the seven. She expected her fathers home by midnight, as promised profusely by Enjolras before they left. He was reluctant to leave her alone, not because he thought her too young or immature (honestly, she’s eighteen. That would just be silly), but because _it’s a Christmas party!_ She declined the multiple offers though. Her uncles and aunts, grouped together, resembled a boisterous mob, a flock of rambunctious 40-something-year-olds. She loved them, no doubt, but sometimes she preferred to leave them to their own functions, maybe catch up on holiday homework. She finished a few daunting tasks a few hours ago, and surrendered herself to the mercy of some random book, plucked from the extensive shelves housed in the library. She was sure, however, to avoid roaming too close to the politics professor’s section, lest she accidentally pick a lengthy philosophical work. Instead, she stuck closer to Grantaire’s books. Between the pair of them, finding _light_ reading was impossible, but she’d take what she can get.

Twenty minutes later, in the middle of a particular passage full of too much prose for her to understand, regardless of the artist’s messy scribbles, her fathers stumbled through the garage door. The door slammed shut behind them, and the pair appeared in the arch connecting the kitchen to the living room. She took in their tousled appearance, Enjolras giggling and leaning heavily on Grantaire, who attempts to herd him through the room toward their bed. Instead of following the unspoken orders, he breaks free from his husband and makes his way over to the couch, plopping down, right on top of the nest of blankets. She yelps and wretches her legs from underneath him, and from the corner of her eye, Grantaire is rolling his eyes and sighing exasperatedly.

“Come on, Enj. Let’s go to bed, it’s late.” Grantaire begs him.

“It is late.” Enjolras concedes, his words slurring together. He starts to push himself from the nest without avail, falling weightlessly back into the pile and giggling.

“Is dad _drunk?_ ” The man in question, apparently, is too focused on turning the book over in his hands and smiling something secret to notice her, but Grantaire purses his lips and nods.

“A few too many liquor toffees.”

She laughs at him, his resigned tone, still standing in the middle of the living room, shifting on his feet and shaking his head.

“Come to bed, Enjolras. We’re all tired.”

The man turns to face Olivie, his eyes unfocused but incredibly serious. “Are you tired, Olly?” She groans at the old nickname but manages to nod convincingly. For her papa’s sake. “Were you—were you waiting up for us?”

Honestly, she had been. She wasn’t really that tired or interested in the book, but she felt mildly uncomfortable going to bed before they came home. She hums an affirmative and glances back toward Grantaire, who just starts unashamedly laughing because Enjolras looks _struck_ , his mouth forming a small _o._

“You waited for us?”

Looking back over at her father, giving an affirmative _yep_ she is more than a little surprised to see his eyes glossy with tears.

“That is just the nicest thing, Olivie. You are so kind and generous and I am so proud you are my daughter.”

He wipes a hand over his eyes, clearing away the tears threatening to fall and she scoots closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Thank you? But why are you crying?”

“I just love you so much.” He tells her enthusiastically.

“Oh, okay. I, uh, love you too, dad.”

A small sob wracks his body and he squeezes her tighter, bringing a hand up to pet her hair like he’s trying to comfort _her._ “And I just want you to know that I will love you no matter _what_ because you’re my daughter.”

“Okay, dad. Thank you.”

He pushes her forearms and she lets him pull away slowly, until just his hands are gripping her shoulders. He raises them to frame her face, holding her head still and looking intensely into her eyes, his own red rimmed and puffy.

“Nothing could _ever_ change that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Unless you’re Republican.” He deadpans.

She can’t help the laughter bursting out of her because _what?_ She isn’t the only one, can hear Grantaire snort and try to cover his outburst with a cough. From there he drags Enjolras from the couch by his arms, practically pushing him into their bedroom and shutting the door with an amused _goodnight, beloved daughter._ Slipping into bed, she lets herself drift off to the complete silence, save a few quiet murmurs coming from her parents’ room, a small smile on her face.

In the morning, she crawls out of bed, shuffling sleepily toward the kitchen to turn the coffee pot on. She finds Grantaire already awake, spinning around the kitchen and humming as he bakes. He only notices her once she walks in, dropping herself on a stool at the bar.

“O’ daughter! My daughter!” He flourishes a pan in his hand, holding it in a mock salute.

“Morning papa. What are you making?”

He twirls around, bringing her a mug and filling it with coffee, a permanent beam plastered on his face.

“We have been charged with bringing the bûche, so I am practicing.”

One thing she learned, with her extended family, is never question Christmas. The group thrives on making all the food they can, packing the thirteen desserts tradition into one Christmas evening and customary dishes from turkey, oysters, and carp, to Latkes and brisket. They bask in common ritual, the annual party, secret Santa, even Enjolras’ yearly political rant about the overwhelming consumerism and undignified religious ideals behind the holidays. His words, not hers.

“What else are we bringing this year?”

“Qince cheese, winter melon and ganash. We made the list last night. Since you dismissed joining, I made sure Feuilly would bring the Kompot you’re so fond of.” She could kiss him. The hodgepodge of regional food from each Amis is the best part of Christmas, but her favorite is Polish (don’t get her or Feuilly started on kutia. Ever).

“Speaking of, how was the party? Dad seemed to have enjoyed it.”

Grantaire is still dancing around the kitchen and fetching ingredients, throwing them in the mixing bowl without measuring. He takes a moment to glance at her and huffs, amused.

“That he did. He especially loved the Bailey’s fudge, and the Kahlua caramel. And the scotch.”

“I’d never seen dad even buzzed before. Nice to know he’s an emotional drunk.”

He sets the mixing bowl down on the edge of the counter to grin at her. “He asked me to marry him last night.”

“Oh my god.”

“I told him I’m already married, of course.”

“Of course.”

“So he locked himself in the bathroom.”

She lets her father tell her all about Enjolras’ drunken actions until she’s wheezing, holding her stomach in her hands and trying not to lose it as the man in question walks in, rubbing his temples and dragging his feet.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” Grantaire bounces over, pecking his cheek softly and cooing at the grimace on his face. “Head?”

“And stomach.” He grumbles, plopping down on the stool next to Olivie.

“Mornin’, dad. I have good news for you!” She chirps and he flinches.

“What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you once you’ve finished your water.” She motions toward the large glass Grantaire’s slides in front of him in place of coffee, taking pity and lowering her voice.

Enjolras obediently gulps the liquid down and Grantaire pours him another glass, placing painkillers straight into his hand before going back to his baking, humming while he plucks another endless array of things from the refrigerator. Once the poor, hungover blonde feels a little more alive, he turns back toward his daughter.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?”

She chances a glance over toward Grantaire, who simply raises an eyebrow and stirs the batter lazily.

“I wanted to tell you, after last night,” He makes a face at the memory. “That I really thought about some things once I went to bed, you know? Like really thought about them, long and hard. And I came pretty easily to a reasonable conclusion, incredibly logical. I’m sure Uncle Combeferre would agree, too. So basically I just wanted to say, you know, well. Maybe this isn’t the time. Your head must hurt terribly and you said a moment ago you felt nauseated, so I suppose I really ought to wait.”

She shrugs and turns back, faces a bemused Grantaire pretending he doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing. From the corner of her eye Enjolras is frowning _the frown._ The serious one he adopts when he can’t quite figure out human interaction. He looks to his husband for guidance, but the man just mimics her shrug and keeps stirring, though the batter must have been done ages ago.

“Olivie?”

“Yes, dad?” She asks innocently.

“You are not wrong to say I do not feel well. But I, I do not think it will affect my response, so I would appreciate it if you might tell me now.”

“Of course, if you’re sure. You see—drink your water, dad. Thanks—see, I just feel I need to stop hiding who I am, you know? Come out, if you will.” She stops speaking, snaps her jaw shut and appreciates Enjolras’ patience for a moment, looking at his daughter attentively while she struggles for words.

“Your father and I will love you no matter what, Olivie. Don’t worry so much.”

“You will?”

“Absolutely.”

“Even if I’m—I’m.”

“You’re what, ‘Ol?”

“Even if I’m _Republican?_ ”

His jaw drops and he just stares while she tries her hardest to keep a straight face, glaring daggers at her snickering father in the kitchen.

“And while you’re gathering your thoughts,” She continues. “I wonder that I have not received a wedding invitation? How awfully impolite. Your own daughter!”

Enjolras just groans, finally understanding, and puts his head in his arms, face down on the counter. He mumbles something unintelligible and she ignores him.

“I guess I can forgive you, after all, you were a little occupied—Rousseau, after all—”

His head snaps back up, effectively cutting her off. “You’re grounded. Go away. Never speak of the Rousseau incident in this household ever again.”

Olivie hops off her stool, “I have thus been cursed. My lips, fair lady,” She bows to Enjolras. “Are sealed.” She skips off to her room, shooting him a wide grin before she disappears behind the door.

“She is her father’s daughter.” He remarks.

“Which father? Who knows?” Grantaire smirks. They tried random conception during surrogacy, but it didn’t take a paternal test to know who the tiny baby with electric blue eyes and black tufts of hair belonged to biologically. Eighteen years later and it’s still a running joke among the Amis.

Enjolras hums thoughtfully. “The cute one, with the dreadful sense of humor.”

“My sense of humor is ace. At least I didn’t give her my _dreadful_ political enragement.”

“Oh, please. She could care less about political affairs.”

Grantaire sets the pan down, halfway buttered and levels Enjolras with a look.

“Seventh grade, Mrs. Browers-”

“Yes, yes, okay.” He interrupts. “I remember. But to be fair, that was a very good reason to be enraged.”

“Whatever. You wanna lick the spoon?”

“That is incredibly unsanitary, Grantaire, I ought to call Jo-”

“Olivie!” He yells over his husband. “Come eat the batter before your father does!”

“Maybe just this once.” Or twice, but that’s neither here nor there.

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely meant to have this up by last week but that just didn't happen. Oh, well. Merry Christmas!


End file.
